


the freedom of birds is an insult to me

by suzukiblu



Series: everybody knows we're just a couple animals [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Blackwatch Era, Blackwatch Genji Shimada, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Blood and Injury, M/M, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Slow Burn, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 11:38:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15095942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzukiblu/pseuds/suzukiblu
Summary: Lupe’s gotten attached to Shimada, to the point where Jesse’s started being the one whose daemon strangers are nervously looking around for. She’s always right there, of course, but “right there” is “at Genji Shimada’s feet”, so folks can be forgiven for the confusion.“Lose something?” he always asks, and pretends not to notice the unnerved stares.





	the freedom of birds is an insult to me

**Author's Note:**

> Turns out I couldn’t let go of this ‘verse until I tried to write UST for it.

Lupe’s gotten attached to Shimada, to the point where Jesse’s started being the one whose daemon strangers are nervously looking around for. She’s always right there, of course, but “right there” is “at Genji Shimada’s feet”, so folks can be forgiven for the confusion. 

“Lose something?” he always asks, and pretends not to notice the unnerved stares. 

.

.

.

Shimada still won’t talk to him, but Jesse’s dealt with weirder. The bigger problem is how hard it is to keep the guy from haring off on his own every mission like he thinks he’s invulnerable when they all know _very_ well just how invulnerable he’s _not_. Jesse doesn’t envy Moira having to keep up with him. 

“Alright down there?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at Shimada, who’s sitting on the ground curled around the stump of his prosthetic arm. Or the stump of what’s left of it, anyway. He knows it’s not a real arm, but he’s pretty damn sure that still _hurt_. 

Shimada doesn’t say anything, of course, but he lets Jesse pull him to his feet. He supposes once you’ve touched a man’s daemon, he’s not going to be quite so picky about his personal space. 

_(he supposes Shimada always gives off barely any body heat, and wonders if he always smells like machine oil and blood.)_

It’s strange to be close to him when no one’s dead or unconscious. 

.

.

.

Jesse tries not to look at Shimada’s chest plate too often. It’s rude, probably, and also a tell he doesn’t want to give away for either of them. Shimada hides his daemon for a reason. Shimada does everything for a reason, presumably, although Jesse’d be damned if he knew what half of them were. But Shimada doesn’t have many secrets, so there’s no reason for Jesse to go nosing around in what few he’s got left to him. 

Even if he’d really like to. 

“You’re so easy,” Lupe sighs while Jesse’s laying on his back in his bunk and busy pretending not to be thinking about watching Shimada julienne his way through a dozen training bots this morning. She’s draped heavily over his legs, nose tucked up under the black fabric of his serape. 

“Look who’s talking, darlin’,” he reminds her wryly. She sniffs dismissively and folds her paws. 

“You started it,” she says. 

“At least I know his _name_ ,” McCree says, reaching down to ruffle her fur. She lifts her head and snaps her teeth grumpily in response. 

“I’ll know her name _someday_ ,” she says. 

“Not if they don’t wanna tell us it,” McCree says. Lupe makes a dissatisfied noise, shaking her head. 

“Easy for you to say,” she says. “You got to touch her. I barely _saw_ her.” 

“Believe me, darlin’, that don’t make it any easier,” he says, trying not to think of the scent of machine oil and blood. 

.

.

.

Shimada’s daemon was so tiny. Such a delicate little thing. Such a _damaged_ little thing. If someone did that to Lupe, Jesse thinks he’d kill them. 

Killing seems to be one of the things Shimada’s best at, fortunately. 

.

.

.

“Shimada,” Lupe says. Shimada ignores her, like always. Jesse can’t ignore him, like always. Lupe--Lupe is Lupe, like always. “You ain’t gotta hide her from _us_ , you know,” she says impatiently, looping a messy circle around Shimada’s feet. He manages not to knock into her, which is a goddamn _achievement_ with how in the way she’s being. “You ain’t gotta act like the cat’s got your tongue, neither. What’re we gonna do, steal it?” 

“Lupe,” Jesse sighs, and she sniffs and circles Shimada again. 

“Maybe I _oughta_ steal it,” she says. “You clearly ain’t putting the thing to any use.” 

_“Lupe,”_ Jesse groans, and she turns her nose up and very deliberately smacks her tail into Shimada’s leg. He twitches, and Jesse does too, but it doesn’t feel like anything. Which--it’s a prosthetic, after all, so Jesse probably should’ve realized it wouldn’t. 

He’d still expected it to, honestly. 

“Do I gotta fall through another building?” Lupe says. “‘Cuz I will, I ain’t above that.” 

“Please don’t,” McCree says, ashing his cigar over the railing. It’s been weeks, and Lupe’s _still_ got a bit of a limp. 

Shimada still hasn’t left, though, which is . . . which is he’s not sure what. 

Which is another secret, probably. 

“He’s _carried_ me,” Lupe says, turning her back on Shimada and acting like he’s not even there--or like anyone forgot that. Jesse really wanted to be easy-going about this. 

“Ain’t exactly fair to hold a man to the favors he does us in an emergency,” he says. 

“He’s talked to me, too,” Lupe says, and Jesse can’t help twitching at that. She hadn’t told him that. It takes all his self-control not to look at Shimada. 

“That ain’t much fairer, darlin’,” he says. 

Shimada moves to step past him instead of leaping over the rail to escape, which might be progress and might just be him not feeling like explaining the damage to Angela again. Their chests press together, just for a moment, and for that moment Jesse can’t breathe. He stares down into unnerving, glowing red eyes and remembers the flutter of feathers at his throat, smells machine oil and blood, feels that barely-there body heat, and-- 

And the moment passes, and he exhales. Shimada moves past him like there wasn’t a moment there at all, and Jesse wonders if he imagined it. 

It’s probably just him. Shimada’s in no place to care about anything like that, and even if he were, Jesse’s the only one stupid enough to get spun over a teammate. 

.

.

.

Shimada lets Lupe stand at his feet. Shimada jumps out a window. Shimada looks at Jesse, and looks anywhere but at Jesse, and doesn’t say a word. 

Jesse’s stupid, and only gets stupider. 

.

.

.

“You’re getting a little weird about this, kid,” Gabe says. 

“I know, boss,” Jesse sighs, dropping his head into his hands. 

“Not as weird as I’m _gonna_ get, boss,” Lupe swears. 

.

.

.

The EMP bomb takes out: Jesse’s comm, Jesse’s back-up comm, the GPS, and three innocent Omnics. 

And Shimada. 

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Jesse curses, scooping the man up off the ground he’s spilled all over and running for it, thanking _God_ that Angela builds her cyborgs light. Bullets spit erratically up the street behind them, Lupe a frantic mess at their heels, and he whips into an alleyway to break line of sight. Shimada’s one good arm lifts up shakily, his hand gripping the back of Jesse’s neck. In any other circumstance, that’d have all his attention. As it is, it gets way too much of it. 

“Hang on, darlin’, I got you,” Jesse says lowly as Lupe yips in distress, and Shimada looks up at him with dull eyes that have lost their glow and Jesses wonders--can Shimada even _see_ him right now? He’s wheezing unevenly, and a strange croaking sound is coming out of his throat. 

Jesse’s used to Shimada not talking, but he’s used to that being a _choice_. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. Where’s Moira when they need her? Where’s _Angela_? Back at base, obviously, because this is a Blackwatch mission that just went entirely FUBAR, not an Overwatch one, but that’s besides the point. 

Shimada’s chest plate isn’t glowing anymore. Jesse hopes that little sparrow is okay in there. Shimada’s almost completely limp in his arms, the hand on his neck barely hanging on, and his eyes are only half open. He might be in shock, which Jesse’s fairly sure he would be too, under the circumstances. 

“We’re starting to make a habit of this kinda thing, ain’t we, sweetheart,” he says humorlessly; Shimada’s throat crackles unpleasantly and his head lolls onto Jesse’s shoulder. Jesse’s not sure if his spine’s even functional right now--just how much of him is cybernetic, and how much of those cybernetics require power to keep him moving? 

An unfortunate amount, it looks like 

They make it through the alleyway and Jesse does one of the fastest hotwire jobs of his life to get them in a car before getting them the fuck out of Dodge. The mission’s shot--Shimada’s in no condition to fight, and he’s not getting any orders off _this_ comm. Time for the better part of valor, before they end up like those poor bastards back on the street. 

Lupe jumps into the backseat with Shimada. Jesse doesn’t have time to waste questioning her about her stupid life choices because he’s too busy peeling out before anybody figures out they’re gone. 

He takes one glance in the rearview mirror and is _entirely_ unsurprised to find she’s somehow made a pillow of herself for Shimada. He can practically feel the man’s weight on his own chest; practically smell the machine oil and blood. 

His fingers twitch on the steering wheel and he nearly sideswipes a trash can. 

This is definitely not going in the mission report. 

.

.

.

Afterwards, he visits Shimada in the infirmary. Shimada sleeps through the whole thing, even when Lupe jumps up on the bottom of his bed and puts a paw on his knee. Jesse’d think he was faking it if Angela hadn’t told him just how dosed-up he was. Apparently reactivating prosthetics ain’t the most pleasant sensation on God’s green earth. 

Jesse’s almost angrier about that than he is the dead people. 

He knew this wasn’t going to end well. He knew not to be this stupid. 

He wants so _bad_ to be the one touching Shimada right now. 

.

.

.

“Ain’t _bad_ to want something nice, you know,” Lupe says in their room that night, curled up at the foot of the bed. Jesse stares up at the ceiling, smoking the slowest cigar of his life, and tries not to think. 

“He ain’t exactly _nice_ ,” he says, and she snorts. 

“Please,” she says. “He’s just about the nicest thing we ever did see.” 

They’re using very different definitions of the word “nice”, obviously. 

“Reckon he’d kill us if we told him that, darlin’,” Jesse says wryly, reaching to the nightstand to ash his cigar. Lupe snorts again, lifting her head to give him a dubious look. 

“Because _that’s_ enough to stop you,” she says. 

“He’s a teammate,” Jesse says. And he’s already way too spun over someone he isn’t actually _involved_ with, which is dangerous enough when it’s _not_ a teammate. “Gabe’d have kittens. Gabe’d have _cougars_.” 

“So would Alma, but you don’t see me fussing,” Lupe says. 

“You _should_ be,” Jesse huffs, taking a drag. “Alma’d bite your damn tail off if she caught you sniffing ‘round that little bird.” 

“Ain’t Alma’s business who I sniff ‘round,” Lupe retorts. 

“In this case?” Jesse raises an eyebrow at her. “I’m pretty sure it is, darlin’.” 

“I just want to see her,” Lupe says. “Ain’t that much to ask.” 

“You know that ain’t true,” Jesse says. It’s a damn _lot_ to ask, and Lupe doesn’t “just” want anything. 

Neither does he. 

.

.

.

Shimada’s eyes are glowing again. Jesse never would’ve thought a sight like that’d be soothing.

.

.

.

Shimada lets Lupe follow on his knife-blade heels and doesn’t let his sparrow out of his chest. Jesse supposes it’s still progress. 

He’s not actually sure what he’s trying to progress towards anymore. 

.

.

.

“Goddammit, Jesse,” Gabe says. 

“A very interesting situation,” Moira says. 

“I think you’re doing him some good,” Angela says. 

Jesse doesn’t know how to answer a single damn one of them. 

.

.

.

Gabe’s briefing them on the next mission. Moira’s asking a vaguely unsettling question. Jesse’s trying to act like everything is normal. 

Lupe’s curled up around Shimada’s feet, as at peace as he’s ever seen her. They’re not _really_ touching--the prosthetics really don’t count, it seems--but it sure as hell looks like it. Jesse wonders if Shimada can even feel her. Does she feel warm to him? Heavy? Soft? 

He could ask sometime, he supposes, but it’s not like he’d get an answer. 

“And McCree, Shimada, you two are taking the west bank,” Gabe says, pointing at the map projected on the wall. “Don’t make me regret that decision.” 

“‘Course not, boss,” Jesse says, tipping his hat back. Shimada just nods acknowledgement. Nobody addresses the elephant in the room, by which he means the _coydog_ in the room. 

He ain’t bringing it up if nobody else is, though. 

.

.

.

Jesse leans against the railing next to Shimada, close enough to hear the hum and whirr of his internal parts and nearly close enough to touch, and Shimada doesn’t jump the railing _or_ shove him over it, which he wasn’t entirely sure wouldn’t happen. 

“You could at least start cleaning up your own training bots,” he says. Shimada looks up at him with glowing red eyes that Jesse will never find unnerving again, and says nothing. “Do you talk to _anybody_ , partner? You must, right?” 

Shimada shrugs, which might be the most answer Jesse’s ever gotten out of him, and looks away. Jesse looks at the scarred line of his throat and wonders how much feeling he has there. There’s skin there, still--there must be feeling there. The temptation to reach out and touch is . . . well, it damn sure is a temptation. 

He’s wearing gloves. It’d be less contact than the sparrow at his throat had been. Assuming he stopped that soon, anyway. 

Shimada would probably stab him. He’d probably deserve it, too. 

“Hey,” he says, and Shimada looks at him again. Jesse takes his cigar out of his mouth and just . . . leans in. Just enough. Shimada goes still against the rail and Jesse doesn’t lean in any farther. 

He considers it, but doesn’t. 

“You’re a terror, sweetheart,” he says lowly. “I ever told you that?” 

Shimada looks at him for a long moment, and Jesse’s almost fool enough to think he’ll speak. Only almost, though. He flicks ash off his cigar and Shimada’s eyes follow the motion, and he follows Shimada’s eyes without really meaning to. By the time he looks back, the other’s already thrown himself backwards over the railing. 

Well. That’s about what he’d have expected, really, Jesse thinks as he takes a drag. 

“He really is a terror,” Lupe says with a sigh, watching Shimada cross the courtyard below without looking back at them. Jesse watches too, and wonders what to do with all the ways it makes him feel. 

He imagines the scent of machine oil and blood in his nose and the feeling of feathers against his throat, but it doesn’t really help.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://suzukiblu.tumblr.com/)


End file.
